This Beating Heart
by Demented Inu
Summary: "I want to try something." John/Sherlock. Explicit.


_I am walking,  
I am walking all alone.  
And I am humming,  
I am humming one of your songs._

I just know one small verse in the middle of it,  
But it makes me want to hear it on and on and on and on...

* * *

"I want to try something."

This announcement had come seemingly out of nowhere, and John looked up briefly from the newspaper to glance at his flat mate in curiosity. (Sherlock always told him that print newspapers had one foot in the grave, that everything was electronic now, but John felt far more comfortable with physical paper than with a glowing screen. He felt older every day, and felt that Sherlock kept getting younger.) It was early still, only just past ten, both of them still in the clothes they slept in, which meant an undershirt and boxers for John, and Sherlock naked but for the sheet wrapped snugly around him. It would have been comical had John not been used to Sherlock's strange mannerisms by now.

"Sorry?" John tried, once again unable to follow Sherlock's speeding train of thought. It was tiring, trying to keep up.

Sherlock said, once more, "I want. To try. Something." It wasn't annoyance, but emphasis, that John noticed in his tone. John's eyebrows knitted slightly and he turned back to his newspaper again. The front page story boasted the headline _Reichenbach Hero Cracks Another Case_, with a rather unflattering picture of John and Sherlock ducking underneath crime scene tape. Well, unflattering for John. Sherlock always managed to be photogenic somehow, strangeness aside.

"What are you waiting for, permission?" John turned the page, searching for his own name with a sense of vanity. It was rare that his own accomplishments were hailed by the press as much as Sherlock's, but any little mention still made him smile. He'd never imagined as a child that he would be in the newspapers one day.

Staring dead on, Sherlock just replied, "Considering that without your permission, I would likely be arrested, then yes."

This caught John's attention, and he flipped a corner of the paper down with a rather loud crinkle in order to look Sherlock over seriously. "What are you planning?"

Sherlock's face didn't change whatsoever, but there was a pause before he continued. "I've been doing some reading online..."

_Oh God_, John thought. _This should be entertaining, at best, and destructive, at worst_. "Okay? And?"

Another pause. Sherlock seemed almost uncertain; almost, because John knew Sherlock was nearly one hundred percent certain in everything he did. If he had decided that he wanted to experiment with something, then by God, nothing was going to stop him, and they both knew it. Sherlock's mouth thinned slightly, and then he opened his mouth, stating simply:

"I want to perform fellatio on you, John."

Okay, needless to say, he was not expecting that. With Sherlock, things tended to range from spoiled milk to severed heads in the fridge, but never that. No, never that. Especially considering that the last time they'd done anything sexual together, Sherlock had come halfway through and without even really being touched much. Not that John minded that much; he loved Sherlock in his entirety, but he knew how that sort of a thing could hurt a man's pride, and Sherlock innocently asking if that was normal, his embarrassment over it, had been so endearing and heartbreaking that John wasn't able to deny him. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that he had never been interested in sex before, and that that had been his first time.

John almost forgot to close his mouth, but eventually it clicked shut and he cleared his throat, sure that his face was beet red despite all of his experience in these matters.

"O-oh?" he asked - smooth, John. He tried to go back to his newspaper, but his eyes kept flicking back to Sherlock's mouth, and his heart felt like it was in his throat suddenly, fluttering there like a trapped bird. "Why all of a sudden?"

Sherlock smiled. It had been rare, once, to see Sherlock smile, but now it was becoming a far more frequent occurrence, and John couldn't help but feel pride at the fact. They'd been dating for almost a year now, and Sherlock had opened up to him more than ever. It was like solving an impossible puzzle. Sherlock had his cases, and John had Sherlock.

"According to online sources," which usually meant ask blogs, when he phrased it that way, "fellatio can add variety to a relationship as well as create intimacy in the bond." Well, if there was one thing Sherlock was terrible at, it was being intimate. Cuddling was always Sherlock's go-to when they were on the sofa together, but anything past that, even kissing, at times, was always up in the air. Nothing by halves. "I think penetration was possibly too much for the first time-"

John felt a pang of guilt there. "Sherlock-"

"-and I want to see if I am any good at making you feel as good as you made me feel." No pause. Sherlock rested both hands on the table, folding them together politely. "According to online sources, you would still be in the position of dominance, if that is an issue. And this time I won't be too preoccupied to... assist you."

If penetration had been too much, why hadn't Sherlock said anything at the time? Pride, most likely. He hoped it hadn't hurt; Sherlock had certainly seemed to be enjoying himself when in the act. But more important, Sherlock felt guilty enough about his, er, early arrival that he felt the need to make up for it somehow. John frowned thoughtfully, interested but not wanting his partner to feel obligated by any means.

"You don't have to," John said, and Sherlock held up a hand.

"If I didn't want to, then I wouldn't."

True. Sherlock was the king of hissy fits. When he didn't want something, he definitely let John know, and for that John was grateful. He'd had plenty of female partners in the past who had been less than informative on that subject, and as such, there had been plenty of awkward goodbyes because of it.

John was about to say something else, but Sherlock was already standing up, walking around the table to kneel in front of John's chair. "Wh- now?" John stammered, putting one hand on Sherlock's forehead, pushing him back lightly. His dark curls were soft under his fingers and he went to threading a hand through that glorious hair instead, twining a few curls around his fingers. "Here? What if Mrs. Hudson comes in?"

"Then she'll leave," Sherlock stated, and it seemed so simple when said that way that John believed him. Sherlock's long fingers moved to undo a button, but paused briefly when they didn't find one. Pajama pants. John smiled at the mistake, but Sherlock just peeled them down; John had to lift his hips to help him, but after a moment, the pajamas and boxers were around his thighs, bunched and pinching and uncomfortable, and Sherlock stared at him as though staring at one of his experiments.

This was rather silly, now that he thought about it. John wasn't even hard. Neither was Sherlock, but that was a hell of a lot less surprising. However, when Sherlock leaned forward, pressing the most innocent of kisses against his limp cock, John felt a thrill of excitement rush through his veins, his hands tightening briefly in that hair.

This was really going to happen. John had had many dreams about it, though in his dreams this always took place in dark alleys after a case, or even during a case, or on the crime scene itself. Work and play intertwining. This was so much better, in the comfort and privacy of their own flat, with a ziplock bag full of toes in the vegetable drawer and that blasted skull grinning at them from the mantel. John loved this flat. John loved Sherlock. How could he ever be unhappy with anything Sherlock gave him, when he went about things so damned earnestly?

It didn't take long for Sherlock's fingers to work him to full hardness, far more practiced than he should be. Sherlock didn't even masturbate; John had asked. For someone so inexperienced, for only having been sexually touched once in his life, he certainly was dedicated. Sherlock leaned forward again and pressed one of those light kisses to the rounded tip, and John watched, fascinated, curious. After a moment, Sherlock's lips parted around the head and that dark head lowered, taking in half in one go.

The inside of that mouth felt like any other, and yet it was different somehow from the few girls that had been willing to do this for him; Sherlock's teeth were just the tiniest bit crooked, his tongue slightly burnt from scalding coffee yesterday, cheeks hollower, lips softer. It felt as John had expected it would - amazing, incredible, intimate, unbelievable, and he brought one hand up to cradle the back of Sherlock's head, not pushing, just petting the soft curls at the nape of his neck and brushing his fingers over Sherlock's skin.

"Christ," John whispered, closing his eyes, feeling Sherlock swirl his tongue and bob his head, and suddenly John's mind felt swimmy, dizzy, like he was underwater. His toes curled but he didn't thrust, just shifted on his chair. Sherlock's hands came to his hips and held them there, guiding him forward into his mouth, sucking and hot, and John had never been one to make much noise in bed but he couldn't help but let out a small groan at the sensation. At the knowledge of just whose body he was penetrating, whose mouth was so beautifully around him.

Whoever had told Sherlock that he was a sociopath was wrong. So, so wrong. John had really, honestly, never seen anyone so selfless. Yes, Sherlock was self-absorbed and arrogant, but it was moments like this one - Sherlock open, honest, giving, careful - that made John appreciate him all the more. Sherlock would give anything for him, he realized, and he just thought of Sherlock staying up late last night, clicking through porn websites and Wikipedia and WebMD, trying to find answers as to what would make John happy. It was touching beyond anything he could properly express that Sherlock would go so far out of his way for him, and his hands wandered across Sherlock's ears, his cheeks, his jaw, touching and caressing everything he could reach.

But it was when Sherlock's hand met his, blindly fumbling for a hold, their fingers locking, that John came. He gently tapped Sherlock's shoulder and the other pulled back just in time for a stripe of semen to shoot across one of those sharp cheekbones. John was breathless, touched himself until he could gather the rest of his strength, looked to Sherlock and saw his partner smiling.

Sherlock had such a beautiful smile, and in that second, John felt an all-consuming need to devour Sherlock whole, to have this innocence and honesty all to himself, never to surrender it to anybody else. Gently, he pulled Sherlock forward by the sheet - why did he still have that thing on? - and kissed him tenderly across the mouth, feeling that smile against his own. _I'm proud of you_, John tried to say with his kisses,_ I'm proud of you and I appreciate you and I love you, I love you, I love you_.

He nudged that sheet from Sherlock's shoulders until it pooled around his knees, leaving his lanky body bare and exposed, and in the next second, he had Sherlock standing in front of him, half hard and kissing him. He wanted to touch him, wanted to physically show him his gratitude and admiration, but...

"Can I?" he asked, one hand tracing up Sherlock's outer thigh. Sherlock looked confused for a moment but then nervously replied, "Yes, of course."

So John took Sherlock by the hips and led him forward until he was straddling John's almost fully clothed lap. John's pajama pants were still bunched around his mid-thighs, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind, sitting comfortably across John's legs. John, completely without that scientific detachment, traced a hand down Sherlock's chest, watching his partner watching him, more thrilling than anything else he'd ever experienced. Sherlock's back arched slightly when John's fingers passed over a nipple, and he paused, tracing back over it, pinching lightly between thumb and forefinger. Luckily, Sherlock was much more vocal than himself in bed, and he gasped, obviously unused to stimulation of this nature.

John wondered how many others had looked at Sherlock the way he was looking at him now, with this haze of love and adoration. How jealous those others would be if they could see through John's eyes and see Sherlock lost in confused pleasure, brain switched off, mouth half open and wet. He leaned in and kissed him, unable to keep his mouth away, and his hand trailed downward, low until he could wrap firmly around him, stroking the way John stroked himself. Firm but slow, at first, and Sherlock buckled, leaned forward against his shoulder, and so John held him with his free arm, stroking him with his other, even at the awkward angle.

"Sherlock-"

"John, if you stop right now, I am going to personally murder you. And no one, and I mean no one, will ever be able to find your body."

John laughed, breathless, but then whispered against his ear, "Can you turn around? This is a little-" There was no argument, no hesitation, Sherlock for once completely obedient as he turned around, once again sitting on him, but this time facing the same way as John, Sherlock's back to John's front. More suggestive, perhaps, but this time when John went to stroke him, it was easier to reach, easier to grasp, easier to feel the pulse of Sherlock's arousal and the steady hitch of his breath. "Thanks."

But Sherlock didn't seem to hear him. Instead, he just gasped out, "Please," which made no sense without context to relate it to, but then John let his fingers wander, cupping Sherlock's testicles and touching behind, and Sherlock was shivering, weak and vulnerable. Jesus Christ, he was beautiful. How had John managed to get so lucky?

Kissing the back of his neck, John dipped his fingers further back still, and slid between his cheeks, touching over his opening. No penetration, that was the deal. Alright, he could work around that, he decided, as Sherlock became a whimpering mess right in front of him. Funny how someone so strong could be reduced to this just by a few touches. He rubbed a slow circle across the small bud of muscle and Sherlock's breath became shallow; he rubbed across it, pressing slightly with each passing, feeling the flutter of warmth against his fingers as he held on.

Sherlock choked out a nonsense noise, his legs coming together tightly, trapping John's wrist rather uncomfortably, but then Sherlock was coming, breath hitching - 'hhk' - and spilling across his own stomach, across the floor. John held him through the aftershocks, kissed over the bumps of his spine, felt his heart beating wildly through his ribs. _You're alive_, that heartbeat said. _You're here, you're alive, you're permanent_. John had never been more grateful for that, and as Sherlock wound down, John smiled, hugging Sherlock around the waist, nuzzling into his back.

"We'll have to shower now," Sherlock stated, still breathing heavily, and John grinned.

"Will we?"

"We have a client at one. A man with work-related troubles involving some sort of clubhouse for gingers."

John glanced at the clock. It was now almost eleven. He rested his cheek against Sherlock's back, listening to the still rapid thudding of Sherlock's heartbeat, and he felt a wide smile come over his face.

Neither of the moved, and neither of them said anything. Those three words hung between them in silence, because both knew that they didn't need saying in order for them to be true.


End file.
